


Fragile, Handle with Care

by RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, set during s15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 17:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16520555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: The objective: Reach the enemies' lair to rescue the Sim Troopers in time.The distraction: Captain Grif's fever has now reached 102 degrees.New objective: Keep Captain Grif alive until previous objective has been completed.





	Fragile, Handle with Care

“Cinnamon.”

The first time he says it, Locus doesn’t pay attention. He’s sitting in the cockpit, staring straight ahead without raising an eyebrow.

“Cinnamon,” Grif mutters again, six minutes later, and Locus figures that he is hungry. That much, he supposes, would make sense.

“The pantry,” he says, “is at the back of the ship.”

Silently, he hopes that the Captain will leave some behind for him survive on when the mission is over with.

He doesn’t count on it, but it isn’t the priority right now.

That would be saving the Sim Troopers and Agent Washington and Carolina.

Captain Grif mutters something in response, but it’s quiet and unintelligible, and his head rolls over to stare out of the window instead of Locus.

The quiet is a welcome change after hours of non-stop questions, where Grif has asked him anything from shoe size to deepest regret, and Locus has run out of answers a long time ago.

He has managed to keep his temper in check because he understands.

The understanding being a knowledge of how psychological torture can break down a mind, how isolation can loosen tongues and melt resolve. (“It’s impressive,” Felix had said, “how long the fuckers can scream when they think they’re alone in the dark.”)

Grif is squirming in his seat, a few restless whimpers escaping with the rambles, but Locus can see his eyelids drop and he knows that the silence will be a relief for all passengers in the ship. He hopes that Captain Grif will doze off.

Maybe hoping was his mistake.

“Finalmente,” the robot head says from its spot on the top of the control board. It hasn’t talked much but it sighs a lot despite not having a need to exhale.

Grif’s eyes open.

The pupils are dilated, unfocused, with a blank look to them. It reminds him of corpses, eyes staring without seeing, glaring daggers into his back as he left the carnage behind.

“Cinnamon,” he says again, for a third time, Locus realizes. “Cinne – Cinnammm- Cinon… _Simmons_!” he gasps as if breaking the water surface.

Locus stares back at him, frozen in his seat. “No,” he says, mouth carefully shaping the word.

Shaking hands still covered by orange gloves reaches for him. “Simmons-Si-Shit, I- I am so so so so-“

“I am not Simmons,” Locus tells him, and he watches Grif slump back in his seat, lower lip quivering. “You are hallucinating.”

“Sorry,” Grif says, still staring directly at him. “Sorry, sorry, sorrysorrysorry-“

At the touch of Locus’ palm against his forehead, he tenses up, as in fear, and Locus is ready to pull away from him. He doesn’t blame him, of course. The Sim Trooper has every right to fear him. Even now, without a weapon, Locus can still be a threat to him. The methods are drilled into his brain, how to move his hands in order to break the neck most efficiently.

But then Grif falls towards him, leaning into his hand like an affectionate dog welcoming its owner home. “Smmmhmmm…” he says, and his skin is burning hot against Locus’ hand.

“Perfecto,” Lopez sighs, and Locus isn’t sure why a robot has been taught sarcasm, so he ignores it and straightens out his back instead, and then he has to catch Grif when he falls out of the seat.

“Oodles of time noodles,” Grif mutters against his chest and then he falls quiet.

He is quiet for a very long time.

And Locus begins to understand the silence isn’t as pleasing as he’s hoped it would be.

He tries with the water first because he knows that dehydration is one of the biggest danger about this illness. He can’t quite categorize it yet. It lacks some of the signs of being a flu, and so far the fever, restlessness and lack of appetite are what he can deal with.

He places the bottle in Grif’s hand, helps his fingers curl around it. “Drink,” he says.

Grif doesn’t drink. Instead, his hand falls to dangle limply towards the ground.

Locus frowns. Water intake should be increased during illness, and he can see how Grif is licking his dry lips, tongue catching the drops of sweat rolling down his forehead.

“Drink,” he tries again before having to take matters into his own hands.

Captain Grif isn’t quite helpful but he doesn’t fight against him either when he maneuvers the bottle between his lips and tilts the head back. At some point he begins to cough and the water spills down his chin as Locus pulls his hand back to let him breathe.

“Submarino,” Lopez says, and after Locus has glared at him, the robot remains silent for a long time.

Maneuvering Captain Grif out his armor is a struggle. The man is heavy, but Locus can deal with that. The problem is the way Grif’s fingers curl around his wrist, how he keeps latching onto him, as if Locus can save him from drowning.

“Buddy,” Grif says, eyes closed. “Buddy, no- Friend. _No_. Buddy-“

Locus sighs, and he knows that Grif isn’t quite conscious, that he isn’t quite aware of what he is saying, but when he tries to lower the soldier back in his seat Grif clings to him with a surprisingly strong grip.

“Are we at Sammy’s?” Grif asks him an hour later, when his temperature has risen to 102 and Locus’ headache has become a constant pounding behind his eyes.

“No,” Locus says and holds the bag of heated MRE towards him. “Eat.”

The smell of tomatoes makes Grif retch, and Locus has a feeling that it’s a bad sign. He places the dinner next to Lopez in case Grif’s appetite changes.

It doesn’t, and Locus spends the next couple of hours staring at the soldier because he isn’t quite sure what to do. He should be sleeping, gaining some strength so he is ready for the mission ahead of them.

Grif’s seat has been lowered so it can function as a bed, but the soldier remains restless, turning over and shivering and muttering as he remains in a state between awake and asleep.

One of the volleyballs is pressed against his chest – a piece of comfort that Locus gave to him in order for him to let go of his hand.

The fever keeps rising, and Locus kneels next to the seat to pick up the wet rag that falls off his forehead whenever he moves. Grif doesn’t flinch beneath his touch, despite how he’d be defenseless if Locus should try to kill him.

But he won’t. He can’t quite help him, either. He’s survived and performed several field treatments throughout his military life. He knows how to set broken bones, he can put his own dislocated shoulder back in place without wincing.

But the fever continues to rage on despite his attempts to break it, and eventually he manages to track down a couple of Advils in the back of the pantry and force them down Grif’s throat.

Maybe Grif is coherent enough to recognize him, or maybe he is suffering through another nightmare, but he squirms until Locus lets go of his chin.

“Sorry,” he says, turning around to sink back in his seat again, waiting.

“It’s okay,” Grif tells him, eyes wide and unseeing. “I forgive you.”

Locus freezes at this, flashbacks and doubts and speculations filling his sore skull, and he is aware of his own mistakes, the absurdity of the situation-

“I’mma lend you the cheese now,” Grifs mutters into the seat, inhaling deeply before another wave of shivers wrecks his body.

Locus, unsure, says, “Okay.”

If Grif doesn’t get better, he thinks, he will leave him behind in A'rynasea. The Sim Trooper will be a liability in the infiltration, and Locus knows the entire plan is risky enough as it is. At this point, the goal is to rescue as many Sim Troopers as possible and hope they will forgive him for his failure.

And if Grif dies, he hopes they will believe him when he explains how he isn’t the cause of the illness. He won’t deny the blame nor the guilt. Captain Grif is his responsibility, even if he cannot control the fever.

“How long was he left behind at the moon?” he asks the robot.

But the head remains quiet, and Locus isn’t sure if it’s shut down to save power or if he isn’t the only one carrying guilt.

Grif mumbles the names of his teammates, or sounds meant to resemble them.

When he says “Locus”, the former mercenary freezes in his seat.

When he says “Felix”, his fingers curl into fists.

Locus makes him drink more water, and when Grif sleeps, his eyelids drop too.

He jolts awake to the sound of Felix’ fading scream. It’s a dream, of course. Locus blinks and realizes that is incorrect – it’s a memory.

But most importantly: it’s no current threat.

The sound of movement has him alert in less than a second, and he sits upright to see Grif crouched over the can of soup left for him. A great amount has spilled down the front of his shirt, and Locus can see how his hands are shaking, but the return of Grif’s appetite is a good sign.

Grif blinks when the hand is pressed against his forehead again, but he doesn’t stop eating.

“The fever broke,” Locus tells him as he retracts his arm, despite not being certain if Grif is even aware of his own illness.

“Mhmm,” Grif says and eats more soup.

He falls asleep again soon afterwards, but this time he lies still against the leather, snoring loudly as he rests.

“Buen trabajo,” the robot praises him through the noise.

Locus huffs in response, finally removing his eyes from Grif to stare at the stars that they pass. Not a long distance left, if the robot’s coordinates are correct. A day left of the journey, perhaps two.

“We’re not at Sammy’s, right?” Grif mutters when he sits up again. The greasy dark hair clings to his forehead, but it doesn’t seem to bother him. Locus has already grown used to the smell.

“No. You were ill.”

“Oh.” Grif needs a moment to consider this, and he seems to frown at the thought. “Did I throw up at you?”

“No.”

“Great! I did that at Simmons once, and he got so mad, and have you ever seen Simmons mad? It’s like, he does that little nose thing, where he twitches it, it’s cute, like a bunny, have you ever eaten a rabbit? Or a horse? Kai kept saying I could eat a horse, but where do you find a horse and would a horse beef even taste good to begin with? How many burgers do you think you could make from a horse?”

“I don’t know,” Locus says. He’s never thought about it. For obvious reasons.

Grif puts down the can and holds the volleyball instead. It’s pressed tightly against his torso as he strokes the maroon color with his finger. “Thank you,” he says, head still lowered towards the ball but he is watching Locus from the corner of his eye.

“We’ll find your friends tomorrow. If you are not well-“

“M’fine,” he says. “It’s fine. Good. Thanks.”

Locus doesn’t quite believe his words. His trust skills, it seems, have to be rebuilt. He isn’t like Grif who’s spend the last days staring up at him, lying weakened and alone, and yet trusting him to help him despite the damage he’s done, the blood on his hands.

“So,” Grif says, pulling him out of his thoughts. He’s lying in his seat again, eyes still wide but not quite as glassy. There’s another look to them now – an honest expression, something stubborn and emotional. Something burning, even though the fever is gone. “What’s your favorite pizza? I like ham because that’s meat but I’m from Hawaii, you know, so you gotta include the pineapple because that’s the stereotype. Do you like pineapple? Where are you from? Have you ever been to Hawaii? I think I would have recognized you if you had – you’re so tall-“

Grif’s voice is hoarse but growing more and more steady as the rambling continues.

Locus sighs.

It’s a small comfort that it’s better than when the cockpit had been quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this one-shot came out of nowhere. I was trying to update both The Worst of Us and Hit and Run with no luck, and to keep the words flowing, I accidentally made this. 90% of all of this was written in the last two hours, it's not perfect, but I figured I might as well post it. I mean, who doesn't love some Grif and Locus interaction?
> 
> Okay, so amazing news - I won a short story contest and now my story is getting published. Which is amazing news, of course, but for you it will mean that updates will be slow the next month, since I'll be constantly working on my short story while in dialogue with the publisher as I have to work on edits after their feedback - introducing the terrible term 'deadline' as I gotta get everything done in time so the book can be published in spring. I am super happy, of course, and I can't wait to get to work again!
> 
> Lopez' lines translated:  
> "Finally."  
> "Perfect."  
> "Waterboarding"  
> "Good job."


End file.
